


Green-Colored Glasses

by LostOzian



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Canon-typical troll awfulness, Extreme Roleplaying, Karma - Freeform, Mild Mind Control, Minor The Disciple/The Signless, Pirates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-24
Updated: 2015-07-24
Packaged: 2018-04-10 22:57:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4411127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LostOzian/pseuds/LostOzian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or, how the First Ship set sail.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Green-Colored Glasses

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BaggedGenreNovel (dzen)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dzen/gifts).



Two weeks spent ashore is not much of a burden, you think. You need supplies. The lower members of your crew could use a break from the Speaker’s whispers. You pamper yourself when you make port. And you make critical plans for the coming sweep. Maybe select a new vintage to save for some great achievement…

The only problem is, the shore is so _booooooooring_.

You sit in a hively tavern, playing one of your oldest tricks on the soportender: the classic “what denomination of currency has she given me?” gambit. All it takes is a little misdirection for her to start paying you for your drinks, and frankly you find that perfectly equitable. She _should_ be paying you to grace this dump with your presence! The minds around you are totally generic. Your Marshall isn’t even there to entertain you, off attending to repairs. You should have brought a slave for extraneous arm adornment.

Sigh. How the mundane fails to entertain the great! You nurse your rum and ponder your most recent adventures. Yeah… those were awesome. _You_ are so awesome. And so bored.

A small commotion stirs up near the back of the establishment. People are laughing and starting to point. You turn and see a troll, petite and lean with a wild mane of hair, dancing about the back to some song only she can hear. She leaps in strange patterns, up and down furniture, with no visible rhyme or reason. Patrons mutter and ask each other, “What’s going through her head?”

You don’t have to ask. You look.

When you glimpse in her mind, you can see she is not in a bar at all. The woman dances along the coast of a volcanic island, recently flooded with boiling lava. The landscape is filled with molten rivers and fire pits, and only a few small rocks provide refuge. She jumps between those rocks, her imaginary fire-land mapped perfectly atop the actual obstacles in the bar. Occupied tables would burn her, but empty furniture was safe to climb upon. When looking through her eyes, the tavern all but vanishes from sight. But almost all of the floor is lava.

 _How juvenile_ , you think. But on a whim, you nudge her imagination. At your command, the rock she was preparing to leap to next crumbles apart. She hastily cancels her jump and stands on tip-toe, waving her arms in windmills to stay balanced as she panicked. You provide a new ledge for her, just to her right.

 _That wasn’t there before_. How astute. You supplement her train of thought with the counter-point, _Or perhaps I didn’t notice it earlier._ She dutifully accepts the idea as her own and jumps to your island.

The game is now afoot. It’s far more interesting than the one you were playing with the soporkeep. Her mindscape subtly ripples under your direction. You mostly focus on presenting her with challenges, like moving surfaces or slightly-too-big leaps. You trap her in a backbend once: hands and feet planted while her supple spine arched upward, creating a rather… attractive shape. Some patrons hollered at her, but she didn’t even hear them. Their noise only registered to her as the hoots of far-off baboons.

Then, curiosity started to sour your entertainment. What is this mad troll doing? What does she want? You engineer a new scenario to hopefully nudge her along.

 _They’re coming soon_ , you think for her. You imagine angry red spines and emotionless faces. _Drones are coming. Get what you came for and leave._

The troll snaps to attention and stares directly at you. Your mind fragments as you see both the troll and yourself simultaneously. She stands before you—wild hair, olive eyes, a slight harelip that she wears well—and you sit before you as well. Rather than a sea-sharp pirate in heavy brocade and boots, she sees you as a beautiful princess wrapped in silks and dripping with pearls. This princess is in need of immediate rescue from the lava! The image is flattering, if condescending. You should inform her your caliginous quadrant is occupied.

In three seconds flat—too quick for you to hinder her—she dashes to your side and clasps one of your hands in hers.

“Purrlease, come with me! There isn’t much time!” Her enthusiasm makes you wince, like she’s mocking your control with sarcastic sincerity. “I need to speak with you—befur it’s too late!”

You dial back your incentive. Drones? What imaginary drones? That was stupid of her to add drones to her fantasy. She should feel so embarrassed right now! And she does, you can feel it, but she is simply humiliated while still gripping your hand.

“What in the name of the Mother Grub could you possibly need to speak to me about?” you drawl.

She clutches your hand tighter. “I want to talk about ships!”

 

* * *

 

She means sailing ships. The ships in your fleet, and the sailing and seafaring that accompanies their use. There was no possible other meaning to her sentence that even occurred to you.

You escort her aboard your flagship for this conversation. You would prefer to hold the hivefield advantage. During transit, her imagination recedes, but doesn’t vanish. She lovingly pretends that your ship is without flaw, glossing over paint chips and stained sails. To her, it is pristine as the day it was made, and sparkles like you coated it in stardust.

“So. Ships,” you say. You lock the door to your cabin behind her. She notices, but doesn’t flinch. “Do you wish to become a sailor?”

“Oh, yes! Furry much!” she chirps. Are those puns or a speech impediment? Perhaps both. “Well, I have other ambitions, but ships will see them furfilled.”

“And what might those ambitions be?" 

Her mind spins like a globe. She sees throngs of trolls, audiences really, and the detail she puts into their fictional visages is quite elaborate. They’re mostly lowbloods like her, which you suppose makes sense.

“I want to travel! Alternia is huge and impurressive and I want to see more than just the furests where I grew up.”

“So what’s your angle, approaching me? Do you want to join my crew?” You laugh. “Do you even _know_ who I am?”

She shakes her head. “I know you have a lot of ships, so you must be purretty good at sailing them. I want you to teach me the basics, and maybe when I’m more expurrienced, I’ll join you.”

“I set sail in two weeks’ time. What could I possibly teach you in such a short span, and without practical experience?”

“We don’t have to worry about that at all! We can purrtend!”

You curl your lip at her. “I _pretend_ to teach you? Can one really learn that way?”

“Yes! If you keep doing that… thing you were doing with my head!”

“What thing?”

“You were roleplaying with me, with my own thoughts! You can make real things happen in my mind that won’t actually happen. So you can give me practical expurrience without efur setting sail! And I learn furry quickly by purrtending.”

You raise an eyebrow at her, unconvinced.

“What if we did a test? Just to show you what I mean.”

You peer into her mind to see if she’s lying. She sincerely wants to learn to sail, and her exercise certainly poses no risk to you, your fleet, or your treasure. You unlock the door and usher her through. She scampers, and the floof of her hair as she bounds away irks you for some reason.

“Now! If I wanted to set sail _right now_ , what would I do?” she asks. 

You don’t go easy on her. The sea does not care your experience level; it will throw everything it has at even the most innocent novice. You spend some time setting the stage: it’s deep in the dark season with almost no visible starlight. She hasn’t eaten in three days. Her ankle was twisted in a skirmish with a rival privateer. And it’s _raining_. 

It’s the rain that breaks her. She clutches her elbows, shivers, and yowls through chattering teeth, “This isn’t t-t-teaching!”

You, safe and warm in reality, laugh. “Yes, it is. Now, what do you think is the first step?”

She makes every amateur mistake in the book. She doesn’t know the anatomy of a ship, the order of checks, or _any_ knots. You take a learn-by-error approach, using your vice grip on her emotional state to direct her. Every incorrect action fills her with bitter shame. How could she be so stupid, to think that was the right way to tie a knot?! She can’t raise the anchor yet, is she a moron? Oh, only an idiot would drop the sails now!

Within an hour, she’s crying. She feels so useless and pathetic and the environmental constraints you’ve imagined for her have finally pushed her to the limit. Her pathetic hiccups make you smile.

“Had enough?” you ask. 

“Yes, stars, purrlease stop…” she sobs. She refuses to look at you. “But that… that was fun…”

Your smile freezes. “ _Fun?_ You found that _fun_!?”

She wipes her nose with the back of her hand, still crying. “Yeah! It was… that was a good roleplay. Taught me a lot.”

You narrow your eyes at her. “Prove it.”

And she does. She walks you through all the steps of a proper launch like a seasoned sailor. It’s not often commoners impress you, but this midblood has done it.

“So you did learn something,” you say.

She smiles. There are still tears on her lashes, but she asks, “Can I come back tomorrow? There’s so much I need to learn!”

The concept of spending this shoretime teaching an insane troll to sail is contemptible. But you know she’s serious. You don’t even have to look into her mind to know; it’s on her face. 

“Be here by sunset. If you keep me waiting even a single second, I’ll leave, and if I see your face after you stand me up I’ll run you through.”

She salutes. “Yes, ma’am!” 

 

* * *

 

She keeps her promise, and is ready and waiting the next night. You subject her to a grueling curriculum based on your own decades of experience. Any time you felt afraid or nearly died, you make her live through that memory and use imagined fear and pain to keep her walking a narrow line of success. Only after three days of those deliberately torturous lessons do you begin to let up. Not out of mercy, mind you. Her soaked meowbeast sorrow is only so funny for so long.

Against your better judgment, you keep teaching her beyond the basics. You are careful with what you show her—no compromising personal information—but after a while, you start showing her your memories without forcing her to step into your boots. You simply let her pretend to be some sort of First Mate that wasn’t there, and she learns that way. In the meantime, you contemplate her mind. She is an outlier for sure. Usually, impressionable minds are boring and simple. The only entertainment you can derive from them is what you make them do. But this olive is both malleable and marvelous. She keeps so much of what matters to her right at the surface where you can easily read it: her life, her lusus, her interests. And perhaps to compensate for her lack of depth, she cultivates an incredible imagination. Like her mind is a never-ending storybook, and you can either control the story yourself, or see what she has fresh for you.

“You know… if you’re getting tired of using your pawers, I could listen instead,” she suggests.

“What makes you think I’m getting tired? This is easier than a wriggler’s game.”

She giggles. “You caught me. It’s not about you. I just like listening to stories. And I’ve got a feeling you have a lot of them. 

It’s been sweeps since you confided to anyone other than your own journal. A very long time ago you realized that an endless blabbermouth does not a very intimidating gamblignant make. A record of your life and thoughts would greatly improve this universe—hence your dedicated journaling—but you no longer share it with anyone. Long, meandering stories are not ruthless.

“I’m a great listener…” she adds, like the fact will entice you.

Well… You have no reason to refuse her. The night is quiet and you always liked the sound of your own voice. If she likes it too, that’s a happy match. 

“What do you want to hear?”

“What about the time you skirted a hurricane in the Southern Ocean to evade capture?” she bounces on her heels. Ah yes, her lesson on how to take up the sails to avoid being capsized by stormy gales.

You take her back to your cabin. You sit in a chair, and she chooses to sit at your feet, smoothing her skirt on her lap and unconsciously curling her fingers around an absent object—a pen? Most likely. You like the way she looks kneeling before you, like she belongs there.

You milk your captive audience for all you can, going heavy on details that peers from your wigglerhood had said were boring. Well, what were they doing now? Did any of _them_ have freedom, treasure, notoriety? Did any of them have a troll sitting at their feet hanging onto their every ‘boring’ word?

She imagines your adventure as you tell it, adding embellishments that you know weren’t there, but you accept them. She paints you in a beautiful light, much like the princess she imagined you to be when you first met. A princess with a sword who always came out on top. You’re not just the protagonist in her mind; you’re the heroine. And that distinction makes a universe of difference.

 

* * *

 

She knows you as Marquise. She thinks of herself as the Huntress, and officially introduced herself after a week of interaction. She grew up outside the city, then edged closer and closer to the town until she finally joined civilization a sweep ago, and now she can’t stop the addiction to trollkind. She wants to meet _everyone_ , hence the wanderlust.

You start bringing her on your errands, mostly because her perspective is so refreshing. Peeking through her mind, colors are brighter, textures are richer. The clouds are more amusing. Trolls you pass take on exaggerated personas: a shopkeeper has dastardly, miserly shadows under their eyes. An imperial soldier is twelve feet tall with a musclebeast’s snout. The professional quadrantmates look more lithe and enticing, like nymphs. Bringing her along breaks you out of habit. It’s like the land is new again, and not a town you’ve visited a dozen times before.

You’ve brought her to the wine trader, where you sample soporifics, deciding which vintage to buy. For each sample, she sniffs, you taste, and then compare notes. She claims that her upbringing away from trollkind has rendered her weak to soporifics. Her vivid imagination provides you an unpleasant picture of the headaches and dizziness she wishes to avoid. You allow her refusal to stand, since you don’t need help manipulating her mind anyway.

“I know I have been to this town at least once after you took up formal residence here,” you mention to her. “And you really had no idea who I was?”

“I didn’t spend time by the shipyard back then,” she explains. “I only realized you were here when my matespurrit and I took a walk by the sea and saw your sign on a flag.”

“You, someone’s matesprit?" 

“Yes! He’s a _sweetheart_.”

You roll your eyes and accept a new sample. Typical, that a simpleton like her would feel attraction to ‘sweethearts.’ “And what does this paramour of yours know of me?" 

“He saw your sign on a flag and knew who you were, and that you were psychic. I found out about the ships and your deadliness after. I suppose he just heard more rumors about you.” 

You offer the sample to her, and she sniffs it, licking her lips with a pleased purr. You taste it, and agree with her reaction. It has a very rich flavor, like victory. “Will your matesprit be coming with you when you find a ship to sail on?”

“Yes, hopefurry. I can’t take him unless I’m a cat-tain.”

“I hope he has a lifespan to match yours. Otherwise, he may expire before you earn a ship of your own.”

“I’m sure it’ll work out,” she folded her hands behind her back. “Do you have any quadrants filled, Marquise?" 

“Mn? Well, I have quite the diabolical kismesis. We duel every so often on the high seas." 

A high-pitched squeal starts in the back of her throat. It’s irritating, and a little embarrassing, but mostly… cute. It makes you remember the early days of your kismessitude with Dualscar; how once upon a time, when his hatred was uncertain, and therefore exciting. Once upon a time, you tried your hardest to catch his contempt! The nervous, fretful anticipation of the past complements the  rush of joy from when you proved your worth as a rival. With a punch to his face. 

“And?” 

“That’s my only stable relationship at the moment. I entrust many responsibilities to my Marshall, but that’s hardly a moiraillegiance. And I am known to dabble in flushed relations, but I believe in serendipity.”

“Meaning?”

“I am saving my true devotion for my fated matesprit.”

There, she does it _again_ , that annoying-adorable noise. You imagine that sound will be the one your heart makes when the one who will be called Summoner smiles at you for the first time. You don’t know much about that moment, but it is bound to happen.

“That is so cute! I can’t take it! I _can’t_!” she cries.

“Oh hush, you stray. My quadrants are complex and interesting, but they’re hardly a good conversation topic between acquaintances such as us.”

“I don’t think so! I think relationships are fascinating.”

“Well, you’ve found a flushed paramour. Is that your only quadrant?" 

“Mm, yeah… we flip purretty often, which can make it hard to flirt in other quadrants. But I don’t feel like I need anyone else.”

You click your tongue. How naïve, to think that one person can fill an entire grid. “He’s very stupid to let you go to sea, you know.”

“Why?”

“Taking to the sea when I was young… transformed me. The seas will change you. If he lets you go, he _will_ lose you.”

“But that’s purrcisely why I keep coming back!”

“What?”

“I can leave whenefur I want, which makes me want to follow even more.”

An asinine paradox. How can you be sure someone will stay with you unless you are completely certain they have no option to leave? You could never imagine yourself staying with someone who never shut the door to the hive, metaphorically speaking.

It crosses your mind for the first time how easy it would be for you to enslave the Huntress. Invite her aboard your ship, put her to sleep, sail away, and don’t wake her until the shore is long out of sight. She would be far from dead weight in your hold. Even taking her short apprenticeship into mind, she has a talent for the art of ships and helping them sail. And it would serve this lackadaisical matesprit right to lose her, if he was this loose with the leash.

The steward asks if you would like any more samples. You wave him away and consult the Huntress. You and she quickly agree that the last brew you tried, the one that tasted of victory, would be best. She imagines its flavor paired with the glimmering majesty of plunder, and the image eradicates your doubt. You put down your deposit for a whole barrel and nick a secret from the steward’s mind that you can use to extort the order from him upon delivery later that night.

The Huntress follows you. The topic of quadrants is far behind her—now she’s envisioning the hives around you as constructed from green moonstone instead of rock. And now that the idea is in your head, you can’t ignore it. Though you are technically ready to sail, you crew could use a few more days ashore. Ain’t no one can accuse you of being unwilling to meet people halfway. Nothing says you have to decide to steal this oliveblood _now_.

 

* * *

 

More days pass. You set sail tomorrow. To celebrate, the Huntress has invited you to share in her savage hobby and hunt some monster through the forest. She advised you to come armed, so you brought your sword, the Octet, and your oracle, just in case. You have made a decision, too. Tonight, you will betray and enslave the Huntress. You figured it would be foolish to let such practical entertainment slip through your fingers.

But… she is late. You wait at the beginning of a woodland trail, certain of your correct location and punctuality. You frown. You have been too lenient with her. She must think some bond exists between you that will make you overlook indiscretions such as this. You will make her pay for her error later. 

A figure runs toward you, but it is not the Huntress. It’s your lieutenant, the Marshall, out of breath and sweating.

“Mindfang! At the docks!” he cries. “An attack—the flagship—!”

“What?”

“That woman—and some others, three others—attacking the flagship!”

 _Impossible_ , you think, but you know better than to ignore the impossible. You don’t wait for more details, and break into a run back to the docks.

When you arrive, your fleet as a whole is minimally damaged. Your crew, on the other hand… All who loyally feared you enough to stand between the attackers and your treasures bear all kinds of injuries. Bruises, burns, bite marks, severed limbs and slashed faces. You recall the Huntress possessing very sharp talons. _She did this?!_

And there, nearly at the mouth of the harbor, your precious flagship, not just carrying your personal effects, but also the whole season’s plunder. Your blood hammers in your veins as your reach into your coat, withdraw the Octet, and let them fly.

 **_Mixolydian Maelstrom_**  

A hellish gust of wind swirls from the dice, building into a gale that screams across the harbor toward the fleeing thieves. The ship rocks and starts to tip—but the sails pull up! All of them, simultaneously! With no surface area to push against, the wind whistles past the skeletal masts and leaves the ship unharmed. And you— _you TAUGHT her to do that!!!!!!!!_

You can’t help it. You fling your hat onto the ground and shriek in rage. Those bastards can probably hear echoes of your anger across the harbor! They’re probably laughing their peasant-blooded asses off at you right now! They stole from you! YOU! Not even in a dignified way like when the scales tip in Dualscar’s favor, no, this—this—!

A still-living sailor, clutching a neck wound, approaches you with a piece of paper. “Marquise…”

“What happened here?!” You snap at her.

“I don’t know. Someone snuck up on me… an’ bit me… an’ then shoved this in my hands.”

She gives you the paper. It’s a letter, marked with your sign. Still disgusted, you rip it open.

_My dear Marquise,_

_It’s time I told you the truth, since by the time you read this, it won’t matter. I am not actually the Huntress. I was not raised in the forest outside this town, and I have not spent the last sweep here. The truth is, I have been traveling with a small group of precious companions. The Signless has seen the true nature of trollkind is one of love and equality. Something has corrupted our species with unnatural violence, but we believe that we can be healed._

_This message is heresy, so if we stay on this continent any longer, we will be captured for sure. To guarantee safe passage, we need our own ship. One of us has experience with battleships, but swore he would never pilot another vessel as long as he lived. So, someone else had to learn about ships. I volunteered._  

_It was hard, pretending hard enough that you believed I really was someone other than who I am. Honestly, I couldn’t tell how much you used your powers outside of lessons. Maybe I was roleplaying for no reason! But I gave it everything I had. He has shared his dream with me, and I will do everything I can to make it come true. This ship is the first part of that dream. I believe a fleet will follow it._

_I’m sorry that I stole your ship. I’m sorry I stole your treasure. And I’m sorry I pretended to be your friend. But, I didn’t pretend to have fun. You’re a really interesting person, Marquise. I’m glad I got to listen to your stories. We thank you for your generosity, and promise to pour out a glass of that purrfect wine in your honor. I wish you all the love and gold and adventure you could ever want. I’m certain you’ll find it! :33_

_But don’t follow us. If you do, my friend will blow you up with his laser eyes. (Yes, he really has those. I’m not joking.)_

_Fondest farewells,_

_The Disciple, captain of the First Ship_

You crunch the letter in your hand. That fool—believing in bullshit and invoking the wrath of highbloods over it! A load of gutterblooded hallucinations, the lot of it! 

The Marshall approaches, but keeps a safe distance. “Your orders, Mindfang? Shall we pursue?” 

Your fingers brush the surface of your oracle, concealed in a pocket. “Give me one minute.” 

 

* * *

 

You find a silent stoop, hidden from most views, and consult the orb.

“Should I pursue her?”

_No._

“Why not?”

_Because she is not joking._

Laser eyes, battleship experience, and vehement opposition to captainhood. It’s easy to deduce she’s describing a helms-grade psionic, now saddled with the angst of the liberated slave. You could probably best him with good timing and a favorable roll of the Octet, but it’s a risk. You need more information before you can determine if that risk is worthwhile. 

You peruse the Disciple’s uncrumpled letter for more clues. “Who is the Signless?” 

_A mutant and a prophet._

“Did he learn of me through prognostication?”

 _No. He remembered._  

“What does he remember?”

_He remembers you as Aranea Serket._

You shiver. You have not seen, or even thought, that name in nearly a century. “How? Have we met?”

_A glitch preserved memories of another life._

“What else does he know about me, from this other life?”

_The full range of your abilities._

“And?”

 _Nothing_.

A small puff of relief interrupts your anger. Your hatch name is an intimate part of your history, but a harmless one. It is no password, weapon, or blackmail. In terms of his ability to harm you, the Signless registers as nothing more than a creepy voyeur.

“What does he want?" 

 _Peace and unity across all bloodlines._  

“Will he succeed?”

_Yes and no._

“How yes?”

_Trolls will live in peace with a united hemospectrum._

“And how no?”

_This will come to pass millennia after his death._

“When will he die?"

 _In four sweeps._  

You blink. So soon! “And how will he meet his end?”

_He will die by public execution, in torment and irons._

“Does he know his fate?” 

_Yes._

“Has he told anyone?”

_No._

Well… this is a more interesting story than you expected. Radical hemoequalists are far more dignified opponents than half-sane swillbloods. With only four sweeps until it’s all over?

You ask one last question: “How does the Disciple die?”

_She will die by old age, in despair and a cave._

A smile appears on your lips. Yes, that’s a fitting punishment for your betrayer. You stow your oracle and return to the docks, thinking about how fortune allowed you to keep your irreplaceable weapons with you while the thieves sailed away with expendable, material goods. The Marshall has gathered your battered crew, and you announce your orders: the freight galleon will act as flagship until such time as you can procure a new troll-of-war class vessel. It’s embarrassing, moving back in with your lusus, but these times are desperate, and at least you have plenty of corpses and cripples for a peace offering. 

“Will we pursue the stolen ship?” the Marshall asks.

“No. Their luck will run out soon. Let them enjoy this fleeting victory.”

Besides. It wasn’t like you’d ever see them again.


End file.
